For Every Tib and Tom Cat


3. loathsome


longing desperately for something mucous to cling to

(while kicking the bucket where the acid foams.)

goons again ferreting me out

the lackey whose hickeys and nail-trails and bleeding rib rubs were self-inflicted

a crow plucked by strange hands

from the hat rack of whose fruit

whoso tastes retches and gags.

on the verge of falling prey to the motherfuckers’ grasp

a disruption at the brisk epicenter of my awful dream.

I had had short ejaculations whenever I awoke

I had yelled: Mom, mom, mother!

I had screamed: That’s it, that’s it, I’m dead, I’m dead!

legs of a prawn a cricket a cockroach a scorpion a spintrian crustacean

whose feelers he tweaks with the vaguest of notions

picking up and in depth

the splendidly jejune sonority of the shimmering night radio waves

he stops awestruck

riveted by the unbearable pedantry

that masks in vain

what nonetheless the thick fart-impregnated air is really pregnant of

the patent destiny of nothingness

that awaits the whole of the crew...

he can’t sort out the truth

from the slush

the spree of sly crimes signed by the escapees from the criminal asylum

echoes of ripe celluloid

the entire psychotic panorama maims his (the spintrian crustacean’s)

and my (how would one call it


his crustacean legs and my eyelashes interlaced

copulating having... intercourse...?

quit gloating at my astonishment I said.

subtle robberies

no guns allowed

just fiddling with the money machine


walking leisurely along the alleys of the park at night

later reading at home

lithe or petrified

peonies shattered or were they incrusted crystals?

off-piste the enthralling pearls of meteorology

usher now the lewd wrecks of a hypnotic reproach

my featherbed where we the shmuck rot

on file the trial and tribulation

of that night

soon blotted out as were the preceding ones

where the gnomes and their wry satchels (of weak goo made)

fluted away vanished

leaving behind trails stern evocations

of the furbishments of the esthete whose thorn at the side

it is to flash the sizzle of past nights

splayed spliced in the conflicted high jinks of tonight.

everyone of the enjoyers and sufferers the same stand-in for myself

a remote cynical swaggering accountant (of grim mush made.)

chronic gloominess

untimely crutches

of the armed bureaucrats knocking downstairs

or rather smashing the door

turned up to slaughter the soft maids of my dreams.

faintly linger the qualms

my accountability of the last crime looming as a monument of steel

grown from the ground up

as a baleful cenotaph

no wait!

it is inhabited a mausoleum

vast where I’ll awake and vouch

to holler more sparsely...

the bulbul flees from my embrace

while a moistness spreads.

am I crying?

have I shitted myself?

aren’t you yet fed up to shack up


with the oozing corpses of who you were?

there’s no greater virtue than to yet be inosculated to yesterday

razed village where only the blabbering slavering idiot obdurately remains

I answered

inanely again sighing relief.


2. sickening


who’ll anchor in vapid mournful longing

the moldering throes of another fledgling carrion

after the war meanders into abysses of lunatic entropy?

who’ll exploit in maudlin rills of silly zeal

the nightmarish afterglow that smoldering destruction

left behind

after the welter of oblivion exuberantly inaugurated new morasses

where the feeblest Venuses

startingly drowned

and the hardy ones survived only as comminatory harpies

as hags turned visceral germs in the quagmires and chasms

of our bloated midriffs

epitomes of maximum cowardice?

who’ll undescore now in girlish crimson whimpers

that all had been a boring hoax?

who’ll dare put in scene the waning skeletal steed

of surrender wagging its mangy tail at the rubble?

who’ll rub it in gloating at the spectacle

frowning rashly at the balmy foliage

of gone yellowing films

after we are told flatly that you certainly didn’t need to rescue


who’ll be daunted enough and chastised and in awe

after the crux has been revealed

to be another broken pile of rotting wood

a pledge to cheat you again

another empty promise all told

that only the fluffy-minded swallowed

in the first place anyhow?

who’ll be the next moron to shrug loud and boisterous the whole mess away?

who’ll slake the still elated womb?

who’ll stave off the ebb and flow of slime

after the null the leapers smote?

who’ll usurp the crawl of the scorpion

after the finicky critics the hairsplitting critics are too shriveled

to aim their gustatory polyps at the bristles of my rectum or yours?



I say never

I’ve been saying never for a while

count me out

definitively infinitely forever out.


1. pitiful


...I hear they are still irking

The hemorrhoidal masses

With the soft sleazy shit of creationism...

...only in Merkin would anybody

Try to pass for science

A stupid belief

Garnered from an old book of idiocies

Written by bloodthirsty witlings...

...everywhere else in the “free” world

(Free from religious mumbo-jumbo)

All those turdsucking creeps

Would be laughed out of office

And maybe with any luck

If not jailed right away as they should

For cheating the public

Robbing them of their only shreds

Of dignity

At least temporarily committed to some asylum

For crazies...

...only in Merkin

Whose politicians are lousy fleas

In a discarded mangy merkin

Would anybody waste

Time and money passing that

Stone that chokes the neck

Of those that are drowning

That dead deadly dud

That makes them sink lower

And more hopelessly down into

The hell by them themselves created

(Always helped by a creating god

Of hells uncountable...)

...and the “audience”

With their swill-swallowing mouth


Eager it seems for more shit


Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,